My poem, The Delivery Man, is only partly autobiographical.
A couple of the verses were written after I became enraged when yet another parcel delivery driver ran up to my front door, stuck a card through the letter box and ran back to his van, which sat by the kerb door ajar, engine running, like a bank robber’s getaway car. The guy didn’t even have a parcel in his hands.
It was the third time in less than a month that I just happened to be looking out of the upstairs window as the despicable act took place. On all three occasions, by the time I got to the front door, the van was pulling away. I later learned, (when I became a delivery driver myself,) that this was a widely practiced tactic, usually employed when the driver was running late
I, of course, never submitted my customers to these shameful tactics, though I did run across a few lawns, I did get into the habit of knocking twice, very quickly, before reaching for my, ‘Sorry,’ card and I did, to my ultimate shame, stare down more than one cleavage. I can only apologise.
Here's to the delivery drivers,
the white knights out on the street,
the men who deliver your parcels,
are honest, polite and discreet.
They follow a noble tradition,
like coach drivers in the wild west,
but you never saw cowboys delivering things
in dirty, ripped shorts and a vest.
They don't think the road rules should apply to them.
They ignore warning signs up ahead,
and if they can't park on the twin yellow lines,
they'll block off the pavement instead.
These heroes are out in all weathers
and start their deliveries at dawn.
They love to leave your gates open
and trample all over your lawn.
They always turn up when you're shopping,
Or when you haven't got a stitch on.
You never have time to get to the door,
one ring of the bell and they're gone.
But never you fear, if you're out when they call,
your package will always get through
left safe in the hands of the neighbour you hate,
with a note saying, ‘sorry, missed you.’
If the nosy neighbour won't take it,
you'll get a nice card through your door,
saying, ‘we couldn't deliver your parcel,’
our depot is open till four.
The depot in question is two shires away,
Five hours and seven detours,
when you finally get hold of the parcel,
you find out it's not even yours.
So three cheers for the white van driver,
the man who delivers your wine
and stands staring down at your cleavage,
while he's trying to get you to sign.